


Beneath the Winter Snow

by Nosow



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Eventual Happy Ending, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Ramsay is his own warning, Sexual Content, Slow Burn, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-30
Updated: 2016-10-26
Packaged: 2018-08-18 16:25:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,791
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8168410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nosow/pseuds/Nosow
Summary: They say that things just cannot grow
    
    beneath the winter snow,
    
    or so I have been told.
  
   
   
   
  "Feral; existing in a natural state, as animals or plants; not domesticated or cultivated; wild."
  AU where Sansa Stark finds her way back to Winterfell, ruled by the rediscovered Bran Stark. Sansa has suffered grievously in her past, but at last she is home, with the Seven Kingdoms secure beneath Daenerys' rule. But Sansa is no longer the sweet, naive girl who left King's Landing; suffering and hardships have changed her, hardened her, and her loved ones no longer recognize her - Sandor Clegane least of all.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, hello!
> 
> This idea has been swirling around in my head for a while...so I wrote it. First and foremost, I am working on another very long SanSan fic, The Weight of Living. I'm not sure how I'll handle keeping up with two, how long this one will be...or really where I even want this to go. It's just something I wanted to explore, and I couldn't keep batting it away. My other fic will take precedence, because it is my baby and the first thing I've posted here. Buuut for those times when I need to slip into another story, this is where I'll do so. 
> 
> Tags will be added as we go along.

Her gown is as white as the winter snow that falls silently around her, snowflakes catching in the strands of her fiery tresses. Red – red like the blood that mars the ivory lace of her bodice. Red like the evening sky in the moments before the sun sets, high above her where she kneels beneath a canopy of skeletal branches.

The howling of wolves sounds, and warm bodies press close. She runs her fingers through ice-crusted ruffs, feels their hot breath on her cheeks. But she does not fear them as they part around her like a stream, bodies slipping around tree trunks and slinking through the shadows, only to return to where she shivers there in the snow. She is ill-prepared for the situation that she has found herself in, dress in tatters, boots too large, fur-cloak not quite warm enough. She is so hungry, her belly protesting loudly at the lack of food. She’d eaten days ago, when a lovely sable she-wolf had brought her the cold remains of a hare. But she’d had no way to cook it, and the raw meat had turned her stomach so terribly that she does not dare attempt it again. 

Death approaches. And the wolves sing.

Their voices rise one at a time, weaving together, blending into a wild, heartrending song. The girl shivers, and her eyes flit closed, perhaps never to open again. Strangely, she is content with that. If she is to die here, with blood coating her hands and warm bodies around her, with the song of her soul piercing the silence, then so be it. Perhaps they are mourning her already, announcing her death to the world. 

But they are not singing for the lost. They are beckoning someone closer, she realizes at last, only when the howls die off abruptly and she hears the distinct thumping of heavy paws. Her eyes fly open, her lashes sticking together in brief protest, just in time to see the wolves bleed away into the shadows. And there before her stands a she-bitch of massive proportions, with thick gray fur and luminous golden eyes.

The girl knows the wolf. Her head throbs as a distant memory surfaces, pressing through the fog. A name.

 _Nymeria._

As swiftly as the name comes, it slips away, and the girl slumps. She knows only that she does not need to fear this colossal she-wolf, whom pads closer and nudges at the girl’s stiff, frozen form. Belatedly the girl realizes what the wolf wants, and gritting her teeth against the screaming protest of her muscles, she flings herself onto the back of the now-crouching creature. She has become so thin lately, so weak, and the burden of carrying her seems effortless as the wolf rises and begins to pad through the snow. The girl sinks her fingers into warm fur, burying her face in the direwolf’s neck, inhaling the scent of the wild and freedom and _home_.

She is not sure how long they travel. She can hear the other wolves behind them, weaving through the trees, always watching. Only once the safety of the forest ends do they lag behind, their howls a farewell when they sound this time. 

The girl is so tired, her eyes long ago having closed, her lashes now firmly iced together. Bu despite the weariness that aches in her bones, she is fully aware when the distant sounds of voices pierce the silence. The wolf who carries her seems entirely unconcerned, so the girl does not bother herself with panicking, trusting her base instincts – which are pricked and wary, but silent. 

The sounds of voices grow louder, and the smell of burning wood and roasting meat reaches her, making her stomach clench so suddenly that she fears she will retch. Still the wolf plods onward, pace increasing slightly as the girl struggles to force her frozen lids open. They comply with a jarring sting just in time for the wolf to halt before a rising gate, the alarmed shouts of men sounding as a scrawny girl with dark hair and steely eyes comes flying from within the walls of a keep so heartbreakingly familiar that the flame-haired girl gasps.

“Nymeria! What do you – “ a pause then, as the girl skids to a halt, eyes wide and disbelieving. “…Sansa?”

The name rips through her, makes her gasp at the pain. It is sharp and abrupt and cruel, slicing through the remains of her heart, shredded like the gown that hangs off of her beneath her ratty cloak. She slips from the back of the wolf, knees colliding hard with the snow as she doubles over, trembling beneath the weight of the memories that smother her.

She feels the younger girl approach, and her head flies back, a snarl tugging at her features. The young girl - _Arya, Arya, Arya, Arya_ \- pauses, surprise and concern warring upon her features. And then abruptly she whirls, bellowing for the guards, for the maester, for _anyone_ so loudly that Sansa cringes.

Sansa. She is _Sansa_ , a name so foreign to her now, so lost. She has not been Sansa for very long now, and the agony of it rips through her, a howling gale, an endless pit that yawns wide and endless. 

A face swims in her vision suddenly, long and grim, accompanied by a riot of dark hair. She reels backwards, hand lifting as if to strike the man, but then pauses. He is familiar too, much like the girl – Arya – and slowly, so slowly, her half-dead brain pieces it together. _Jon._

“ – get her inside, in the warmest room we have. Make sure the maester is waiting,” he is saying, barking orders to the men that have crowded around, making Sansa so terribly uncomfortable that Nymeria notices and growls. “Move back! Give her room! You there – alert Lord Stark. And…and Clegane.”

 _Clegane. Clegane. Clegane._ Over and over, like the cackling of crows, it sounds in her pounding head. She gasps, remembering a scarred visage, water alight with flames, a stolen song. As quickly as the memories reach her they leech away, and her instincts are plowing into her again, taking control of her as she scrambles backwards in the snow.

Arya is kneeling there before her suddenly, her expression neutral, her arms resting on her knees as she observes Sansa. “It’s alright,” she says, quietly, and Sansa stops her scrabbling. Something about Arya’s tone, her words, the look in her eyes…”I get it. But you’re safe now, Sansa. You’re home.”

Home. Winterfell. Tears sting in her eyes as she looks down at her hands, still coated in half-frozen blood, and trembling madly. When she looks back up to meet her sister’s gaze, Sansa at last lets her tears fall.


	2. Chapter 2

Sandor Clegane learned a long time ago to stop wanting things.

He’d wanted to become a noble knight when he was young, to marry a beautiful lady, to joust in her honor and win her love. He’d wanted to play with that damned toy knight when Gregor found him that fateful day; only for a moment, just a bit, until he’d been discovered. He’d wanted his pain to stop in the long, agonizing months after Gregor held his face in the flames, when his skin cracked and bled, when he could only eat soup, when his sister died while he slept through the pain. 

And he’d wanted Sansa Stark.

She’d been a child when he met her in Winterfell, a slip of a girl with vivid crimson hair and wide blue eyes that ensnared him. Too young then for him to really think of her _that_ way, but he’d known that she would blossom into a beauty. And oh, she had. Even when she faced the cruelty of Joffrey, even when she was forced to wear gowns far too small for her growing teats, even when he snapped and snarled at her like a ravenous dog, she was a lovely little bird. He wanted her, and he knew he couldn’t have her, and that had made Sandor Clegane a vicious, cruel man.

Still, he’d asked her to leave with him during the Battle of the Blackwater. He’d offered to keep her safe after holding a knife to her throat, and no bloody surprise that she’d turned him down. He’d left then, tail tucked, pride pricked and bleeding. He’d abandoned her to the lions and assumed her dead when he heard little of her. He’d mourned for her long after. 

Everything had changed, after that. The memories assault him sometimes when he lays awake at night, a terrible blur. His encounter with the Brotherhood Without Banners, his trip with Arya, his wound suffered by his brother’s blasted men. He, being left bleeding and begging like a child by the Trident as Arya rode away from him. Memories of Sansa as he bled and bled and _bled_ , knowing that death came soon. And then the Elder Brother, appearing like a bloody saint, offering him life. Sandor had spat in his face. The Elder Brother had only smiled, wiped away the spittle with his sleeve, and ordered Sandor to be loaded into the cart a group of goggling brothers were standing by.

He'd passed out from the pain when his leg was jostled.

The next months were agony. He was vicious, terrible, spitting insults and frothing rage. The Elder Brother took it all in stride, even when Sandor learned he would forever walk with a limp; even when he cursed and spat and cried. And over the following months he grew less sullen, but more silent. Never did he take his vows, but he worked digging graves, and worked hard. For that, he was allowed to stay. 

Stranger was there, too – the last remains of the Hound, the man that Sandor was no more. The sharp, jagged, jaded pieces of a creature that he'd tucked far away. Still, he could not part with his horse, who had been loyal to the end. Or, rather, what he’d thought had been the end.

Months. He’d spent months there, until news of dragons in Dorne reached them. It seemed as if Daenerys Targaryen had been no idle rumor; there she was with three fire-breathing beasts at her disposable, the long-forgotten Imp at her side, an army of Unsullied behind her – and the Westerosi falling over themselves left and right to swear fealty to her. Winterfell, which he’d heard had been taken by Boltons, was left deserted by the deceased Roose Bolton’s bastard when Daenerys announced her intent to march upon it, for in a curious turn of events, Bran and Arya Stark had turned up alive. 

It did not take long for King’s Landing to fall, after that. Cersei, Tommen, and Margaery Tyrell were taken prisoner – though Cersei somehow managed to hang herself in her cell, bringing her madness to an end. Sandor couldn’t say that he was sad to hear it. 

Sandor had waited to hear news of Sansa, but it never came. He concluded that she was indeed dead, though a stubborn part of him insisted that she was not. It was that part of him that urged him to part from the Quiet Isle at last when word reached them that Bran had taken back the North under Queen Daenery’s command. 

The North was fucking cold, and it made his bad leg ache. The Elder Brother’s warnings for him to _remember his time on the Isle_ rang in his ears the entire time, making Sandor snarl. And when he arrived, he was promptly slapped in chains as the wolf-bitch Arya screamed accusations at him.

But it seemed as if their time on the road – or perhaps something else – had softened her. He was allowed to plead his case with Lord Bran Stark, and like a fucking greenboy, he’d spilled it all. His attempts to protect Sansa, his cowardly flight from King’s Landing, his time spent with Arya, and then his time on the Quiet Isle. Bran had listened, furs thrown over his useless legs, and afterwards he’d informed Sandor with sorrow in his gaze that Sansa was nowhere to be found.

And so that was it. She was dead. And Sandor was left with nothing; perhaps that was why he’d accepted the offered position of soldier at Winterfell, where he swiftly moved through the ranks until he was training other men, barking orders and putting his skills to use.

The months passed slowly, but they blended together in a haze. Sandor kept mostly to himself, despite the fact that the Northerners had warmed to him. Serving Winterfell felt like the least he could do; a pathetic way for him to make up how miserably he’d failed her. He fell back into his habit of drinking, though not as vigorously as before. It was hard to get properly drunk off of Northern wine, anyways, which was spiced and sweetened.

\---

He is working in the cold when the howls sound from beyond the gates. His leg twinges irritatingly with each movement that he makes, but still he prowls through the group of sparring soldiers, barking a rebuttal here and there. His hair is longer than he’s allowed it to grow in years; soon he’ll have to cut it, but for now he impatiently brushes it out of his eyes as several men pause, startled by the howling.

“Never heard bloody wolves before?” he snaps. “You’d think you lot would be used to it, with those damned direwolves prowling about. Keep practicing!”

And the men do, until the howls taper off and there is a shout of alarm from the top of the gates. Sandor frowns, squinting as he glances towards the rising portcullis that Arya darts beneath, her skinny form hard to miss. There is something happening, he can feel it in his bones, and though he instructs his men to keep practicing, he cannot help seeing for himself.

He moves towards the gates, trying his hardest to suppress his damned limp. It isn’t difficult to see over the gathering crowd; he’s taller than most, after all. 

The first thing he spots are the direwolves; Ghost and Nymeria pace around a huddled form in the snow, which Sandor surmises to be the Snow boy, judging by his mop of ebony curls. He is kneeling over something alongside Arya, something still and stiff. There is a vivid flash of red, stark against the snow, burning like fire, and Sandor’s heart seizes. 

He grunts as he moves forward too swiftly, leg screaming, but he cannot slow his momentum. Not when his heart is thundering, his eyes seeking the form that is being lifted into the arms of a burly guard. Her gown is white in most places, splattered dark reddish-brown in others, a vast contrast to the fiery strands of hair that whirl in the wind. Her eyes are closed, her breathing labored, and he notices that she is thin, so thin. Before he can think to stop himself, he is barreling towards her, pulling her form from the startled soldier, cradling her gently in his arms. 

“I’ll carry her,” he rasps hoarsely, and Jon Snow regards him gravely for one long moment before nodding. Sandor cradles her close his chest as he whirls and marches towards the castle, Jon and Arya close on his heels. He can feel how fragile she is, how cold and slender, and he glances down at her as he rushes into the keep. Icicles frost her dark lashes, snowflakes melt in her hair as if it were true fire, and her skin is a faint shade of blue. She does not move at all as he bursts into a room at Jon’s instructions, where a fire is already roaring, a startled maid giving a squeak. He ignores the girl, placing Sansa on the lush bed, piling her with sable furs, smoothing her ice-crusted hair from her features as the Maester comes rushing in.

He steps back, though reluctantly, to hover near Jon and Arya. The Maester, a middle-aged man with thinning brown hairs, reaches to extract Sansa’s fingers from beneath the furs. The moment his dappled skin touches hers, cornflower orbs snap open, her gaze flitting wildly through the room. A feral snarl slips from her slips as she scrambles away from the Maester, furs falling away to reveal a heaving chest. Jon makes a noise of dismay and Arya goes as if to move towards her sister, but before the brat can, Sandor is striding forward.

“Sansa,” he says, his voice cracking pitifully upon her name. For months he dreamed of her, nightmares that woke him from his slumber, sweating and sobbing. He dreamed that he could hear her voice, a weak, hoarse cry for help that was carried to him on an icy wind. They were surrounded by snow and ice and wind, and he could not see her, could not reach her, but he could hear her. In the distance, wolves always howled. And now she is here, and he reaches for her, callused palm closing the distance between them. She regards him warily, eyes flashing.

His fingers are only inches from her lovely porcelain cheeks when she lunges towards him with a cry that is half scream, half sob, her jagged nails scrabbling at the skin of his face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sooo obviously this is super AU! I'll be mixing a tad bit of elements from the show with book stuff, but mostly it will be book - when it's not completely made up all together. ;)


	3. Chapter 3

_It’s odd, the things you remember when you’re watching someone die._

The look of dawning realization in those hard eyes. The way his lips twitched, pulling into a smile even as the Stranger extended his pale hand and reached for him. How the spiraling snow caught in his dark hair, dusted his cloak, settled upon the pelts of the circling wolves, their eyes gleaming like gemstones in the darkness. 

The weight of the rock in her hand, her knuckles white as it dug into the skin of her palm. The very moment that his gaze slid away, towards one of the wolves that had drawn too close. How she hadn't thought, hadn't considered; her body had moved seemingly of its own accord, instincts flaring, teeth bared as she brought the rock down hard. 

It stunned her, when she reflected on it later, how easy it had been. She had little strength left in her after days spent at his mercy, but her blood had roared in her veins, adrenaline had spiked through her core, and an inhuman scream clawed its way up her throat as she put every ounce of _life_ left in her body into the movement. 

The rock collided with his skull with a sickening crunch, like boots on wet gravel. The place she'd hit caved in, making her stomach lurch. He stumbled, dazed, as blood began to pour in rivers down his face. His eyes, when they met hers, reflected many things; surprise, agony, rage, fear. Blood bubbled from his lips, but he was _still smiling_ , and she'd screamed once more as she'd hit him again. 

And again. 

And again. 

Blood, everywhere. In his hair, matted and slick. Pouring from his splayed, splintered skull, staining the snow beneath his still-twitching form. On her hands, her gown, her face. So hot, practically burning the skin of her numb fingers as she dropped the crimson-drenched rock. 

The things afterwards are more difficult to recall. She remembers the flash of ravenous eyes as the wolves closed in on his form, their maws already stained and crusted from the blood of his hound, the only one he'd managed to bring, whom they'd thoroughly ripped to shreds. She remembers the dogs hot breath on her heels when she'd been so close to escaping, laughter ringing out behind her as she sobbed. She remembers the way the wolves had bled from the trees as if conjured by her fear, defending her. Remembers sitting huddled in her sparse blankets long before that, shivering at the sound of their howls. She'd been silly to ever fear them. 

But despite the flashes and tangles of other things, the memory of his death is as sharp and clear as the moment it happened. She thinks that it always will be. 

\--- 

When she stirs, her eyes still pressed closed, she is aware of warmth. She is piled in furs, and somewhere in the corner, the telltale sound of firewood crackling hisses out. Her body is strangely sore, aching everywhere, making her brow furrow as her eyes flit open at last. 

Fear spikes through her, because she recognizes the room she is in. Winterfell. And that means _he_ is here somewhere, that he didn't flee with her, that she didn't kill him...

 _No, no, no._ She sits up abruptly, and it is then that she notices a slender figure seated beside her chair. The girl stands up swiftly, holding up both hands in surrender. 

"Sansa," she says. "It's me. It's Arya. It's alright. You're safe."

Arya. Yes, she remembers now, in bits and pieces. The wolves guiding her through the snow. Nymeria. Arya and Jon and Winterfell. 

Slowly, her heart slows its pace, but she is still tense. Her knuckles are white where they grip the furs, and she glances around the room warily. Arya, she trusts. That hard, feral part of her so newly awakened recognizes something similar in her younger sister. But being here makes her nervous. The last time she was within these walls, there was nothing but pain. 

"You can relax," Arya says. "No one is going to hurt you. In fact, I'd say that _you're_ the one to worry about." 

Sansa's eyes flick to meet Arya's, and she frowns. It takes her several tries to speak, her voice a pathetic rasp, her throat aching from the effort. "What...?"

"You don't remember?" Arya arches a brow mischievously and grins. "A certain Hound was here, when you woke for the first time. You went wild; scratched up his face, and Jon's too, when he tried to pull you off." 

Hound. The word makes her flinch, remembering cruel eyes and snapping jaws and blood. Arya must see something in her gaze, for she hurries to clarify. 

"Clegane." 

Fire and ash and steel. Slick, scarred flesh and hard eyes. She shakes her head, pain lancing through her chest. If her sister is attempting to jest, it is not funny. "He's dead." 

Arya scoffs. "And if rumors were to be believed, _you_ were supposed to be dead, as well. So was I, and Bran. Jon too, though that's a strange story. Seems as if you can't place much stock in whose said to be dead or alive." 

Bran. Alive? The thought makes her heart give another pitiful throb. And Sandor Clegane, too, if her sister is to be believed. She shudders, the news overwhelming, clanging in her skull. Arya is here, and Bran, Jon, Sandor. Winterfell is theirs again. And _he_ is dead. 

_Cold, crusted blood on her hands as she stumbles through the snow in boots she stole from his corpse. Fresh blood on her mouth as she tears into the raw carcass of the animal that the she-wolf presented her with, a pitiful whine whistling through her stiff, numb nose._

"Sansa." Arya's voice is quiet as she leans forward; instinctively, Sansa flinches away. "What happened to you? Last we heard, you'd disappeared from King's Landing after Joffrey died. And then, nothing. Where have you been?" 

Memories of Joffrey do not sting as they once did; he was an angel compared to the creature whom she'd found herself with. 

She begins to tremble as she looks away from her sister's gray eyes, unable to bear their weight. How can she begin to put her agony into words? 

"Here," is all she says. "I was here." 

There is a long moment of silence as Arya tries to piece together the meaning of her words. Sansa had not _always_ been here, after all. She'd been in the Vale, for a while. 

Until Roose Bolton had begun to write to Petyr. Until she'd been taken from the Vale to Winterfell and given to _him_. 

Arya realizes it, too. "That's why Ramsay Bolton deserted his men and fled Winterfell when he heard Queen Daenerys was coming. He took you with him." 

_Ramsay. Ramsay. Ramsay._

"He was going to marry me," Sansa says with a cruel sneer that feels strange on her features. "Until he heard that the dragons were coming. He fled with me instead. With me and...and..." 

Theon. Theon was with them, in the beginning. When had they lost him? Had Ramsay killed him? Her brow wrinkles as she tries to remember, but she's spent so long blocking out the gruesome memories of Ramsay's hands on her flesh, his knife on her skin, that she cannot recall. 

"What did he do to you?" Arya's voice is low, dangerous. The snarling, bristling wolf within Sansa snuffs and awakens, scenting the promise of blood. "Did he hurt you? Sansa?"

She does not answer. It's a foolish question. Of course he did. 

"I'll kill him for it," Arya promises. 

For the first time, Sansa smiles. "I already did." 

\---

Arya calls for a meal for Sansa, and a hot bath to scrub the remainder of blood and grime from her body. She tells Sansa that besides the Maester, no one has been able to get near enough to bathe her - not without her flying into a fearful fit. 

When the serving girls duck inside, Sansa watches them warily, her eyes never leaving them until they are gone. Luckily Arya seems to understand; she declines the girls offers to assist with bathing Sansa, insisting she will do it herself. 

"But first," Arya says, gesturing to the food on the table. "Eat. You're skinnier than I am." 

The smell of pork and sweet fried onions makes her mouth water. Though her legs tremble, it does not stop Sansa from vaulting off the bed. She descends ravenously upon the food, her stomach screaming for more as she digs her fingers into roasted, crackling pork with crisp skin, devouring it. The onions follow next, and then the almond short buns, until there is nothing but crumbs on the plate. 

Licking the oil from her fingers, she glances up to see Arya gawking at her, and Sansa freezes. 

"I've never seen you eat like that!" Arya crows. "You used to yell at me for eating with my hands. Who's unladylike _now_?" 

Sansa simply frowns at Arya, who continues to giggle under her breath as she moves forward, reaching to help Sansa with her tattered gown. The moment her fingers brush Sansa's arm, her stomach lurches sickeningly, threatening to expel her dinner. 

_Cold, clammy hands pinching and bruising. The slide of unwelcome flesh against her skin. Pain._

She stumbles backwards, snarling, and Arya freezes. Sansa's breaths come in short, swift pants as she shakes her head. 

"I'll do it." 

Arya only nods as Sansa begins to shed her clothes, until she is left naked and shivering, fighting back the bile that rises in her throat. She approaches the tub swiftly, stepping in and sinking down into its depths without assistance. 

The heat of the water is a blessing, and Sansa sighs as she tips her head back, submerging her hair. The water begins to turn a dark brown mingled with flecks of red as she washes, scrubbing herself with jasmine scented soap until she is raw. Arya leaves her to it, busying herself with burning Sansa's blood-crusted clothes and then finding something else for her to wear. 

Sansa's hair is a gnarled, tangled mess, but she does not dare ask for help - not when she cannot stand being touched. So she stubbornly works at the kinks until they're gone, and by the time she's finished, Arya has found her smallclothes and a plain gray gown. 

Sansa dries herself and dresses, thankful to see that Arya chose a gown with no lacings. Afterwards, she stands awkwardly in the middle of the room. It feels strange to be warm and clothed and full, after so long spent starved, frozen, and half-dead. 

"Should I tell Jon that you're awake? And Bran? They're worried." 

Swiftly, Sansa shakes her head. "Not yet." She is not ready to see them, not ready to answer their questions or feel their heavy gazes. 

"What about the Hou - Clegane?" 

His name alone makes her chest constrict; does she want to see him? She should, to apologize for attacking him. But how will she explain to him why she is a broken, wild mess? How will she explain to him that she is no longer the soft, sweet girl from King's Landing? 

Again, she shakes her head. "No," she whispers raggedly, padding back over to the bed, her swollen, sore feet protesting the entire way. "I'm not ready to face the world."


End file.
